Daddy, Daddy, Candy Eater

A woman she’d never met had been the one to name her Candy.

After her mother passed, a father she’d always loathed had tasted the candy, often.

She wrote Candace on her job application but her real name stuck. She was Candy to the office, especially to the men, and those men sampled the candy, too.

McMillan, Murphy and Collins, attorneys at law, enjoyed candy. Candy endured, not enjoyed, the attention, the gifts, the flowers, the sex. Every man who penetrated her smelled like her father, tasted like his cigarettes and beer, reeked of his sweat.

Candy murmured lies and pocketed the cash. Each month she examined her brokerage statement and thought to herself, “I’m a slut but a rich one at least. Thanks, Daddy…”

Mr. Gregory Solomon, Vice President of Finance, took her to dinner, a show and then to bed. On her way out, he patted her on the rump and put an envelope into her hand. She kissed his bald head, fondled him a last time and started for home.

Candy never spent the night with the candy eaters. Her father, now a decrepit old man, needed her help bathing, shitting, and eating. He still loved candy, but just the chocolate kind these days.

Candy stopped in a convenience store and bought a box of chocolate cherries, her father’s favorite. The clerk commented on how much of it she bought. Candy smiled her sweet little smile at him while she paid.

Pulling into the driveway, Candy killed the engine and walked up the front steps of her house, reminding herself to take out the trash bin before she went to bed. Damned thing was overflowing with candy boxes already.

Once inside, she flipped on a light and made her way into the kitchen. Rummaging under the sink, she came up with some goggles and an industrial painter’s mask. Tucking the chocolate cherries under her arm, she closed the cabinet door, clacked off in her heels, and descended the stairs to the basement.

She unbolted the door at their bottom.

Even with the mask and goggles, the sharp tang of urine, feces, vomit and decay was enough to nearly overwhelm her.

Her father lay in a puddle of his own waste, chained to the opposite wall. Dozens of empty chocolate boxes littered the filthy floor all around him.

“Look Dad, I brought you dinner,” Candy said, tossing it just beyond reach of his pustulous, skeletal fingers.

Death By Committee

McCloud walks slowly into the bar, not limping, but the effort it takes is clear on his face. He slides into a seat with a grunt from way down in his throat. The bartender approaches.

‘Double bourbon, neat,’ says McCloud, settling onto his elbows.

The barman goes to pour his drink and he grimaces as he reaches into his jacket. When his hand reappears, it is holding a wallet and dripping splotches of red onto the bar.

‘Your hand’s bleeding,’ says the barman, waiting for his payment.

This gets the attention of the young man sitting a few stools down. McCloud throws a twenty on the bar and stuffs his wallet back inside his jacket. When he does, the young man to his right sees his shirt, soaked scarlet with fresh blood.

‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ asks the young man.

The barman turns to have a look and McCloud puts the whiskey away in one.

‘Give me another and keep ’em coming.’

The barman pours another drink. McCloud touches a couple of fingers to his belly and they come away bloody. He turns to the young man.

‘It’s a long story kid,’ he says, ‘not sure I’ve got enough time to tell it.’

He reaches around to his back, pulls a gun from his belt, and lays it on the bar.

‘Hold on a minute.’ It was Paul, chiming in as usual. ‘I thought you said we weren’t allowed to have guns,’ he said to Graham.

‘He doesn’t actually use it. It’s just a prop,’ I said.

‘Aye, but I wanted to have a gun in mine, but I left it out because they said no guns.’

‘Or sex,’ said Julianne, as if this was helpful addition to the conversation. There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group, who apparently felt the same way.

‘He is right, Ian,’ said Graham, who was supposed to be running the thing. ‘We agreed that for this exercise we wouldn’t have any stories involving guns.’

‘Or sex,’ added Julianne again.

‘Yeah I know that,’ I said, trying my hardest to ignore the silly bitch, ‘but the gun isn’t important. He doesn’t even use it in the story.’

‘Well then I would suggest it’s not necessary to mention the gun,’ said Graham. ‘Remember that old rule – if there’s a bomb in the first act, it should go off by the third.’

‘Omit needless words,’ said Richard, like he was some fucking literary sage, rather than just a bald, boring cunt quoting Strunk at a writing group. If Richard omitted needless words he’d never speak again. I looked around at the blank faces, waiting for my reply, and drinking this shit up. Some of them were taking notes.

McCloud finishes off his second and sits slumped, staring at the bottom of his glass. He looks at his watch.

‘Another?’ asks the barman.

‘Why not,’ says McCloud. The young guy beside him takes a swig of beer and waits patiently.

‘Okay then, what I meant is that the gun is important, but only in setting up the character,’ I said. ‘There is no gunfight, it’s just something he’s carrying. If the gun itself was the issue, then maybe his hat is also an issue.’

‘Is he wearing a hat?’ asked Paul, frowning. Everyone checked their copies of manuscript I printed for them.

‘I don’t think you mentioned him wearing a hat, Ian,’ said Graham.

McCloud reaches up and pats the top of his own head. No hat.

‘Musta got shot off in that gunfight I was in,’ he says, grinning in spite of his pain.

Everyone agrees that there was no mention of a hat in the opening. ‘Okay so he’s not wearing a hat!’ I said, ‘I was just making a point.’

‘I think the character description needs a lot more work. I can’t picture him at all,’ said Julianne.

‘I actually did picture him with a hat,’ said Stephen, and everyone ignored him but me.

‘Forget about the hat!’ I half-shouted. ‘What he looks like doesn’t matter that much.’

‘Actually you can give a lot of character information with the physical description,’ said Richard. ‘The guy is obviously involved in crime in some way, so maybe you could convey that in how he is dressed. Like a gangster, maybe.’

‘That’s why I mentioned the gun,’ I said.

‘But we did say no guns,’ said Graham.

‘Or sex!’ said Julianne.

‘What if we take out the gun and put the hat in?’ Graham went on.

‘What do you call those hats the gangsters used to wear?’ asked Paul.

‘Stetsons,’ answered Richard.

‘Yes, see, this is good,’ said Graham, uncapping his pen. ‘Take out the gun and have him lay his Stetson on the bar,’ he said, scribbling on his copy.

McCloud looks in surprise at the hat sitting where his gun used to be. He puts the hat on his head.

‘What do you think?’ he asks the barman.

‘Not as much use as a gun.’

McCloud sighs in agreement, takes the hat off, and tosses it away.

‘Okay so we agree that the hat can replace the gun?’ said Graham, looking around the room. They’re all nodding like cattle. I think about the other stories I’ve had to sit and listen to. Every one about an affair, or a marriage falling apart, or a marriage falling apart because of an affair. These people learned to write by watching soap operas. I once tried learning how not to write by watching a soap opera and didn’t even make it through for the educational benefit.

‘I never agreed to that,’ I said.

‘Kill your darlings,’ said Richard, always with a helpful quote. Pompous fucking prick.

‘I think the hat is better,’ said Julianne, ‘The gun is too symbolic. Too phallic.’ Julianne’s story had been about a woman’s husband leaving her for another man, and she thinks everything is a fucking phallic symbol. I decided to fuck with her a little bit.

‘That’s nothing, wait till I get to the part with the dildo,’ I told her, looking very serious.

‘We said no sex!’

‘Oh it’s not a sex scene, technically. The woman in the story almost gets caught diddling herself with a dildo up her ass but she hides it in McCloud’s underwear drawer. It’s an allegory for male rape and female empowerment.’ Everyone considered this silently.

‘That’s amazing,’ said Julianne, and she was being sincere. I don’t know why I bothered. At the last meeting, she told someone he had an Oedipal complex.

‘Again, Ian, it seems like this story has a lot of material we agreed we wouldn’t use. The point of this exercise was to come up with a story that didn’t rely on sex or violence to keep the reader interested,’ said Graham.

‘Well if I can’t write about people fucking or killing each other, what should I write about? People just sitting around talking?’

‘Sure. Stories like that can be very interesting.’

‘Bullshit. No one would read a story like that,’ I said.

McCloud is slumped over the bar, blood pooling on the floor around his barstool. The young guy lifts McCloud’s arm and lets it drop, lifelessly, back onto the bar.

‘I think he’s dead,’ he says.

‘Shit,’ says the barman, ‘get me his wallet. He still owes for the last two.’

Imported from Addis Ababa

“Mommy, LOOK at THE MONKEY! He’s PLAYING with HIS —”

The little girl was going to say “pee-pee” until her embarrassed and shocked mother muffled her mouth and whisked her toward the concession booth for some cotton candy; her daughter loved the stuff, maybe the fluffy confection would erase the monkey’s abominable acts from her impressionable young mind…

But the mother was definitely in the minority; everybody else outside the cage was eating it up, a bunch of wide-eyed, salivating animals, pointing and cackling as the Gelada baboon jacked off for their weekend entertainment, pumping its big ding-dong with two hands, up and down, faster and faster and—

SPLOOOOGGGEEESPPPLUUUUURRRRTTTT!!!

“Whoa, man, get a LOAD of that LOAD!”

“SCREW the LOAD! Look at the COCK on that THING!”

“That CRAZY APE must’ve JIZZED a GALLON!”

Balls fully purged, the baboon flashed its hideous fanged grin before giving his audience the finger…

“Well, FUCK YOU TOO, you damned MONKEY!”

“UP yours, ya FILTHY APE!”

Somewhat reluctantly, the riotous crowd moved on, ambling toward the next zoological attraction as the baboon yawned and scratched his dirty pink ass.

***

“Okay, okay, Harry, pipe down. It’s coming, buddy…”

The zoo closed for the evening as the zookeeper, crate of field corn balanced on his shoulder, unlocked the cage. Harry was starving, screeching and dashing from corner to corner as his handler stepped inside. The zookeeper knelt, opened the crate, and tossed the green ears onto the concrete floor, one after another.

While Harry munched, the zookeeper plucked a fresh Roi-Tan from his shirt pocket and lit up, smoking, reflecting…

“—don’t smell like monkey shit either.”

“Baby, please, you know I can’t help that. I’m a zookeeper, after—”

“And he never COMES first! I mean, NEVER! He can FUCK for HOURS!”

“He’s a lot younger than I am.”

“You got that right!”

Jessica, the zookeeper thought, watching Harry’s gnashing fangs.

She had been one hell of a lay. They had met in the express lane at Mac’s supermarket where she worked as a checkout girl; he had forgotten the spicy mustard and she had been a good sport, dispatching a pimply-faced bagboy to fetch it, sparing him the hassle of returning to the crowded aisles.

That simple act of courtesy had touched him, infusing the zookeeper with a rare jolt of confidence; they’d chatted while the kid hunted for the mustard, and by the time he’d returned, the zookeeper had Jessica’s digits tucked in his shirt pocket alongside his ever-present Roi-Tan.

Thus began the best sex of the zookeeper’s life…

Jessica could never get enough.

And nothing was off limits.

She liked it doggy-style, cowgirl, reverse-cowgirl, old-fashioned missionary, every which way two people could fornicate. No hole or sequence of penetration was prohibited; she was especially fond of ass-to-mouth, introducing the relatively inexperienced zookeeper to the practice. Even now, he got a hard-on every time he used the ATM, each bittersweet transaction reminding him of Jessica’s desertion.

The heartless whore had left him for an eighteen-year-old produce clerk named Maurice. According to Jessica, Maurice could stand on one foot and juggle three coconuts. Also, Maurice had a twelve-inch cock and testicles the size of lemons.

Presently, Harry screeched for more food. Puffing on his cigar, the zookeeper tossed the remainder of the corn in his direction.

The plan was to go back to his apartment, swill just enough beer and smoke just enough dope to lower his inhibitions and/or fear of capture, and then procure Jessica as she finished her shift at nine. The zookeeper had been stalking her for weeks; he knew Jessica’s schedule backwards and forwards. Maurice worked days, so he wouldn’t be there; he would be back at her place, puffing on a jay, priming his twelve-inch pole and big nuts.

Sorry, Maurice, but there’ll be no nooky tonight.

Not for you, anyway…

The zookeeper watched as Harry attacked the corn.

That’s it, buddy. Eat it all. You’re going to need your strength for later…

He waited until Harry swallowed the very last morsel before pulling the tranquilizer gun from his belt. The darts were loaded with just enough azaperone to knock Harry out for a few hours. Sedation was necessary. Otherwise, the perpetually-horny baboon was liable to jack-off three or four times before he could do the job…

And that just wouldn’t do. Harry had to be at fullpotency for this.

“Sorry, Harry,” the zookeeper said, aiming the gun, “but you’ll thank me later.”

Then he squeezed the trigger.

***

Sitting behind the wheel of his twenty-seven-year-old Pontiac Fiero, the zookeeper’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel. In homage to Ted Bundy, he had removed the passenger seat, affording him a nice flat surface in which to transport his human parcel to the zoo.

In deference to paying customers, Mac’s employees parked on the far fringes of the lot, a good distance from the store proper, so that’s where the zookeeper had parked, right beside Jessica’s royal blue Sunbird.

“SizeDOES matter!”

“Please—”

“And he’s HUNG like a GORILLA!”

“Baby—”

“And another thing!”

“Don’t—”

“He AIN’T been CUT!”

“You actually like—”

“I love me some UNCUT COCK!”

Each and every heated argument came flooding back, slashing the inside of his brain like knives. Then he saw her…

He hadn’t been waiting more than a few minutes before Jessica appeared. She was still wearing her bright red smock. With much pep in her step, she waltzed across the smooth asphalt of the parking lot.

Eager for Maurice’s cock, the zookeeper thought.

Well, baby, I’m afraid I have some bad news…

When Jessica spotted the zookeeper’s car, she stopped in her tracks, a split-second freeze in which she may or may not have considered turning around and returning to the safety of the store. But she didn’t retreat. She shook her head in dismay and kept right on walking as her ex waited.

The zookeeper didn’t emerge until Jessica was unlocking her door, popping up like a demented jack-in-the-box, leering at her over the Sunbird’s roof.

“Don’t you ever come to my job again—”

He brought up the tranquilizer gun, leveling it at her head.

“Unless you want a dart in the eyeball,” the zookeeper said, “I suggest you shut the fuck up and come with me.”

She started to mouth off until he cocked his gun, and that’s all it took to convince her that he wasn’t fooling around. The zookeeper stepped behind her as she reached the passenger side of his car, opening the door like a true gentleman.

He then whacked her in the back of the head, knocking her unconscious as he pushed her in, rushed around to the driver’s side, fired up the Fiero and hauled ass back to the zoo.

***

The enclosure’s overhead lights rendered the tableau a sickly yellow. Wielding a water hose, Roi-Tan jutting from his mouth, the zookeeper stood in the corner of the cage, eyes glazed over with malevolent wonder as he took in and admired the scene.

Hands cuffed behind her back, a naked and groggy Jessica was sprawled out on the concrete. She had begun to revive, but was still not fully aware of her predicament just yet. As for Harry, was just about fully woken up, the azaperone having finally relinquished its potent grip.

Unable to delay any longer, the zookeeper activated the hose and blasted Jessica in the face. She coughed and sputtered, whipping her wet head around, slinging water in all directions as Harry ambled around her.

“LOOK ALIVE, KIDS! RISE AND SHINE! IT’S PARTY TIME!”

Then he sprayed Harry right in the kisser, and that sealed it. Baring his fangs, screeching and flailing his gangly arms, the baboon kicked into gear.

Jessica’s eyes bulged like Texas grapefruits—

“OH, MY GOD! NOOOOO! PLEASE, GOD, NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Her terror seemed to have an aphrodisiac effect on Harry. His cock sprang to life, swelling and pointing the way as he approached his new mate. The dart still buried in his flank did little to diminish his agility; in fact, he hardly even seemed aware of its presence.

“THAT’S IT, HARRY! GO GET IT, BOY! TAP THAT NASTY POONTANG!”

Jessica’s bowels cut loose then, spewing shit beneath her squirming, kicking form. But Harry didn’t care as he mounted her from behind.

He liked some stink with his pink.

The Midnight Call

Amy was half-asleep when the phone began to ring. She started, the movie she’d been half-watching still playing. It looked like it was nearing the end. She turned down the volume and picked up the phone.

“Hello?” It came out as a croak. She cleared her throat.

There was no immediate response, but she could hear breathing. It wasn’t heavy, wasn’t lecherous. It was light.

“Hello?”

Still nothing. Amy hung up.

She stepped away from the phone, stretched and yawned, decided it was time for bed.

In the kitchen she got herself a glass of water, keeping one eye on the television screen through the open door.

Amy lived alone. Her flat was in the middle of the block, on the seventh floor. Her neighbours were not too dissimilar to herself: they were young, mostly, had decent jobs, kept to themselves. There was no trouble. The nights were quiet, even at weekends.

The phone rang again.

Amy eyed it, ran her tongue round the inside of her mouth. She contemplated picking it up and putting it straight back down. Unplugging it. It was late. If someone was messing around, she wasn’t in the mood.

“Hello?”

The voice was quiet, but clear. Male. “Please don’t hang up.”

“Who is this?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. I know who I’m talking to.”

“Well, you rang me, so I’m not surprised.”

“I could have the wrong number.”

“Do you?”

“Is this Amy Taylor?”

Amy said nothing, froze.

“I’ll assume from your silence that you are.”

“Who is this?” Amy said.

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me who you are or I’m going to hang up.”

“Please don’t hang up.”

“I warned you.” She made her voice firm.

“Aren’t you curious?”

“About what?”

“Why I’m calling.”

“Why don’t you just spit it out?”

“If I do that, you’ll hang up.”

“I’m going to hang up anyway!”

“I’ll tell you, if you promise you’ll stay on the phone.”

“So tell me.”

“I want to fuck you.”

Amy’s jaw slackened. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips, tried to summon some spit, looked to her door to make sure the chain was on. It was. She walked over, checked the handle. Locked.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“There’s no need to be alarmed. I don’t mean rape. If it’s not consensual it’s not worth it.”

Amy said nothing.

“How does that make you feel?”

“What? Who is this? What do you want?”

“I’ve told you what I want.”

“You’re not going to get it.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be honest.”

“Too honest.”

“Yet you’ve stayed on the phone.”

“I said I would.”

“Promises are easily broken.”

“I don’t break promises.”

“Not even ones made on the phone to complete strangers you can’t see?”

“You’ve made me curious.”

“You want to know who I am.”

“Yes.”

“You think you’ll be able to find out.”

“Have we met?”

“This isn’t twenty questions.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a conversation.”

“All right. Why do you want to fuck me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Amy realised she was still standing. She turned off the television, took a seat. “Give me some reasons.”

“You’re very beautiful.”

“Are you only interested in looks?”

“We’re talking on a phone. What do you think?”

“That sounds like we’ve met.”

“I like how you wear your hair these days.”

Amy paused. “What?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I liked it when it was long, but it looks better short. It suits you. It shows off your face. Your eyes have always been your best feature, but now they really stand out. They look bigger almost. I hope you take that as a compliment. I mean it as one.”

Amy couldn’t talk. Until his description of her, she’d thought the whole thing was maybe just some joke. The voice was a mystery. It didn’t belong to anyone she knew. But he knew her, apparently, what she looked like, how she wore her hair, and how she used to have it.

She was scared.

“I’m sure many men tell you how beautiful you are. You’re generically pretty. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. But there’s something different about you. Something special.”

Amy opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“You’re scared, aren’t you? You don’t need to be scared.”

Amy went to her door again, double-checked the lock.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Amy croaked.

“You’re not talking.”

“You caught me by surprise.”

“Nothing should surprise you. I’m talking about you, after all.”

“Okay. Okay.” Amy took deep breaths, regained her composure. “So what makes me ‘special’?”

“That’s something hard to explain. It’s wordless.”

“Give it a try.”

“Okay. Well. Sometimes I worried that you would be one of thosegirls.”

“What do you mean?”

“The kind that look very nice, but when you talk to them you realise that’s all they are. That is the entirety of their being – the way they look. Inside, they’re empty. Vacant. They have no interest in anything or anyone other than themselves. It’s disheartening.”

“And that’s not me?”

“You know it’s not.”

“Maybe those girls don’t either.”

“Probably they don’t. But that’s how they are.”

“You know so much about me, but I still don’t know anything about you.”

“Tell me what you want to know, I’ll see what I can do.”

“What’s your name?”

“You’re being too ambitious. You know I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Okay then. What do youlook like?”

“You wouldn’t be interested in me.”

“That so? How can you be sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Why’s that? Are you deformed or something?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not giving me much to work with here.”

“I didn’t say I would. I said I’d see what I could do.”

“So what will you give me?”

“Would you feel more or less inclined to continue talking to me if you thought I was handsome, or grotesque?”

“You said I was special. You tell me.”

“Then let’s say I’m hideous. Let’s say I’m hunchbacked, my fingers are webbed, half of my face has been horribly scarred in a fire. I lost an eye in that same fire. The left one.”

“That’s a great deal of misfortune. But your voice doesn’t sound like you’ve been so badly burned.”

“How does my voice sound?”

“It sounds deep… it sounds…” Words failed her.

“Does it sound sensual? Strong? Handsome? Smart? Sexy?”

“Yeah, okay. I suppose it does.”

“It kept you on the phone.”

“Possibly. Maybe. I don’t know. It could have been part of the reason. You made me curious. You sparked my interest.”

“If a woman called me out of the blue, claimed she wanted to fuck me, it would spark my interest, too.”

“Then we’re on the same page.”

“Mmm. Do I scare you?”

Amy hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“I won’t hurt you. I won’t even ask to meet you.”

“Then how do you expect to fuck me?”

“I don’t expect it – I want it. Go to your window, open the curtain.”

Amy looked at the drawn curtains but didn’t move. “Why?”

“Go to it. Look outside. You won’t see anything. You won’t see me.”

Amy prised the curtains open. “Well?”

“Wider. All the way.”

She did. There was another block of flats directly opposite, similar to her own. In some windows lights were on, but mostly they were in darkness. She tried to look at each one, searched for faces, but there were too many to check so quickly. “Are you there?”

“I might be.”

“Where else would you be?” She leant forward slightly, looked to the roof.

The voice laughed. “I’m not up there.”

She straightened up, looked the windows over again, eyes drawn to the lights though she knew they were the least likely.

“I don’t know anyone that lives in that building.”

“And yet I know you.”

Amy raised her hand, waved.

“I’m waving back.”

She dropped her arm. “Where are you going with this? Put your light on, let me see what you look like, who you are.”

“Take your clothes off.”

“What?”

“You heard. Take your clothes off. Let me see you.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Yes, you are. You will take your clothes off, you will stand naked, and you will let me see you.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to show me what I can’t have.”

“You want me to tease you?”

“No, I want you to show me. And you want to be admired.”

Amy bit her lip.

“Don’t be shy. It’s just you and me.”

“It’s a whole building.”

“Nobody’s looking.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“Does it matter? Take off your clothes.”

Amy hesitated. She kept the phone to her ear.

The voice was silent. Patient. Waiting.

Still holding the phone, she slipped off her cardigan, one sleeve at a time, let it fall to the ground. Paused. She took off her jeans next, most of her legs concealed by the wall below the window. Then she took off her t-shirt. Her clothes lay in a heap at her feet. She kicked them to one side and stood there, presenting herself.

“The underwear, too.”

Though she hesitated for a moment, Amy unclipped her bra, let it fall. She stared straight ahead. She’d given up on trying to pinpoint his location by now.

“Everything,” he said.

She lowered her knickers, stood back up.

“You’re very beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Touch yourself.”

“I’m not going to–”

“You weren’t going to take off your clothes. You know you’re going to do this. Close your eyes. Listen to my voice. Imagine me there, with you, behind you, my arms around you and my mouth at your ear.”

Amy did as he said.

“Now, touch yourself.”

The phone in her left hand, still at her ear, she slid her right across her stomach until it was between her legs. She stroked herself slowly. She was already moist. She rubbed at her clitoris, gasped into the phone.

“Are you…” She swallowed. “Are you doing the same?”

“I’m there with you, my hands upon your waist. I kiss your ear, your neck, your back. My hands cup your breasts. My fingers stroke your nipples until they harden. I spread your legs.”

Amy gasped. “Yes…”

“I go to my knees, put my face between your buttocks, tease you with my flicking tongue. I press it hard against you, taste you. I send tremors through your body. And then I stand again, slide it in.”

She dropped the phone, put her hand against the glass, kept her eyes closed. She slid her fingers in and out, ran the tips around her labia, stroked herself until she felt her orgasm begin to build. Her strokes grew shorter, more vigorous, her breathing harder. Cries she didn’t know she was making escaped her lips.

When it was over she stood and caught her breath, both hands upon the glass. She slowly knelt down and picked up the phone.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Did you… did you like what you saw?”

“I liked what I saw. Did you like what you heard?”

“You know I did.”

“I’ll have more for you tomorrow.”

And with that, he was gone.

Amy stood at the window, still naked, still exposed, Her orgasm still coursed through her limbs, tingled in her toes and her stomach.

Slowly, her heartbeat calmed, her breathing returned to normal.

She closed the curtains.

The Wilted Hipster

The last fat bitch I fucked made me cum after thirty minutes of slippery penetration. That’s what I like about fat women; you can truly enjoy yourself instead of busting a sticky load within two minutes. Sexy women just make me cum too quick, and I’m out for longevity.

Her name was Mandy and her colossal panties smelt like Chinese food. When life becomes redundant, I often take solace in the scent of her panties. Usually, afterwards I order wu-tang chicken as I bitch and rant on my blog. The food is never delivered on time.

I’ve been running my blog for two years now with barely any interaction whatsoever. People on the web just don’t give a fuck about what I have to say. I never would’ve thought that people worldwide could be as callous and pretentious as they appear to be. To tell you the truth, I’m kinda inspired by it.

My phone rarely rings, but when it does it’s either a bill collector from a third world country going by the moniker of John when their English is atrocious, or it’s my girlfriend Gina. I better answer that.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Vito. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours now. What the fuck?”

“Sorry, Gina. I’ve been busy on my blog, and waiting for Chinese food. It still hasn’t arrived.”

“Oh, that’s great. Obsessing over your stupid blog instead of sticking your dick in my poor lonely pussy… There is no reason someone as sexy as me should have to resort to masturbation.”

“Look Gina, I’m gonna have to call you back. The Chinese food finally arrived, and I’m starving. Don’t worry, my eager cock will be there soon.”

“It better be. I’m all hot and worked up over here. I want you inside me. I miss you. I love you.”

“I love you too, honey. I’ll see you soon.”

If she only knew I fucked fat bitches on the side. Wow. That would be devastating. It might even drive her to suicide. What a dick thing to do. Cheat on your super sexy girlfriend with fat bitches. I should feel ashamed, but all I feel is hunger. I’m gonna go vigorous on this wu-tang chicken.

Gina’s small apartment is located in the nicer part of town, in Dormont. The cheap beer flows like the Allegheny river, the town drunks are all cordial, and most of the residents wanna fuck my sexy girlfriend.

Jesus Christ… I enjoy fucking fat bitches.

Here we go again. Another predictable night.

I knock twice on the door, and Gina answers it wearing nothing but my old Manic Mike And The Mood Stabilizers T-shirt. She must be excited to see me. Her rock hard nipples are damn near piercing through the T-shirt.

“Vito! Come on in, grab a class of Chianti. Take your clothes off, spend time with me…”

I’m treated like a king with a giant platinum scepter for a penis. I don’t deserve this treatment, but I kindly oblige. If it wasn’t so fucking predictable, I’d probably be content. Every day seems like a rerun.

Even the whole fat bitches thing is staring to get old.

My ice-cold Chianti isn’t going to be cold for long. I didn’t even have time to drink more than a sip before Gina slid my average-size penis down her throat.

She’s slurping away and making a pig out of herself, just like she always does, all the while with a twinkle in her eye. I’m fondling her perky C-cups and thinking how lucky I am to have such a hot, determined fuck tool by my side. I throw her sexy ass on the bed and slip it in, doggy style. Three minutes later I bust my load on her pretty little face.

I tell her I love her, then focus on my blog as she sleeps. Her snoring problem gotta go.

Still no action on my blog.

Well, ain’t that predictable. Bunch of antisocial media motherfuckers! All these dorky fucking assholes can fuck off! I’ve wasted years on this blog with no fucking benefits! I’m shutting this fucker down. This blog and redundant lifestyle are finished! It’s over!

In the morning I go to Marrotti’s Coffee to get my fix. This seems like a good place to relax. A good place to ponder the possibilities, and hopefully a good place to empty my asshole.

“Hi, I’d like a triple shot of espresso with a side of seltzer water, please.”

The hipster nerd with his red glasses and his pointy beard says, in a condescending manner, “You sure about the seltzer water? People never order that with espresso in this shop. Most bona fide bean enthusiasts relish in the aftertaste of espresso.”

“Well personally, I could give a fuck about what your other customers are enthusiastic about. I didn’t come here to engage in contentious conversation over fucking coffee, bro. I came here to figure some things out, and take a healthy shit.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we don’t permit people who chase their espresso with seltzer water to shit on the premises.”

“You fucking hipster piece of shit! Go and get me the goddamn manager, right now!”

“I am the manager, seltzer boy.”

And that’s all it took for me to feel alive again. A new life experience. I’ve never hit a man with glasses, but once I finally did, it felt better than any of the times I fucked fat bitches or any of the times I shot cum in Gina’s pretty little face.

This belligerent hipster fuck went flying into the espresso machine. He whimpered like the little bitch he truly was. Those stupid fucking red glasses were broke into pieces, and the pieces of my life were put back together.

Miraculously, I avoided jail. Maybe that fucking hipster had it coming. People around here are sick their shit. The whole demeanor of a hipster is that of a contemptuous know-it-all asshole. It’s a free country, do what you want, just don’t do it around me. And shave that ridiculous beard.

I told the story to Gina, who offered me her asshole for the first time as a celebratory gift. Her untouched, bleached-out asshole is finally mine! Something new! Can’t be mad about that. We stunk up the bedroom and she shit out my seed as I created a new blog called ‘The Wilted Hipster.’

It’s doing great. I’m finally getting the recognition I deserve.

Fine Diamonds Gentlemen’s Club (366 Parsecs From the Sturgeon-Clements Galaxy) In the Year of Our Lord 2033

I watched Ruby gyrate on stage, her ass swinging like a pair of churchbells. Long, high-heeled legs carried her from the pole to the half-dozen mooks huddled before her, shimmying in one of six pre-programmed routines. Heavy rock music smothered the whirring of rotors in her hips, her neck.

In red neon she looked bathed in blood.

The mooks whistled and hooted, tossing dollar bills at Ruby’s feet—old habits died hardest in titty bars—but otherwise behaved themselves. Until they grabbed her or stuffed money into her bald box I left them alone.

I went back to my poem.

“Hank! Are you even paying attention? Jesus, do something!”

Ruby had unhooked her bra, flung it behind the stage, and continued reaching to unhook it again. The mooks found it hilarious, whooping each time her tits strained upward.

Sometimes the girls’ circuits got stuck in a loop and it’s no big deal. Ruby, though, had shredded the MetaFlesh between her shoulder blades; it hung in flaps, revealing the steel column of her spine.

I dropped my pencil, uttering a curse, and shambled to her.

This was why a lot of clubs had switched to holochicks.

I looked like an asshole, dragging my bulk onstage. The mooks taunted me accordingly. One of them told me to shake it, baby, and threw a dollar. I pocketed it.

Heath didn’t like it when I worked on girls in the open—spoils the illusion, he said, like the illusion wasn’t the goddamn point—but Ruby had torn herself up good, and he hatedspending money on repairs.

Heath’s the owner of Fine Diamonds. He’s a cocksucker.

Ruby was an easy fix. I tinkered with a few knobs under the plate on her back and she resumed grinding and humping like she was supposed to. The tear in her flesh needed patched but could wait.

When I returned to the bar Joe had an earful for me.

“The fuck do we pay you for, Hank, to write your little love notes? Keep that barstool from getting cold?”

Joe managed the place. Most nights he sat with his buddies from the Satan’s Pilgrims. Joe used to ride with the Pilgrims until his ticker acted up; a couple of his boys remained on hand for security. I called them Motherfucker #1 and Motherfucker #2. Not to their face.

“Sorry, Joe.”

“Go grab another case of Yuengling, Shakespeare, Nikki’s almost out.”

The beer was heavy and carrying it hurt my back; I’m not a young man anymore. I plunged bottles two at a time into the ice chest, thinking how good one would feel sliding down my throat.

“He’s only putting on a show for his biker pals, you know.”

Nikki looked sympathetic. She was real but had enough piercings to be practically half-metal. She used to dance before Heath brought in the robots, still had the legs and ass to show for it.

“Yeah, I know.”

She slipped a Yuengling into my palm.

“On the house, writer man.”

“You’re a good gal, Nikki. Why don’t we sneak back to the VIP room? I’ll give you the ol’ blue-veined behemoth.”

“Maybe when you’re rich and famous, Hank.”

Fine Diamonds had some nice scenery—Sapphire, Emerald, Jewel, they were some well put-together robots—but Nikki was the best thing about the job, blueballs notwithstanding. On the worst nights I could watch those legs—real skin, not that MetaFlesh horseshit—or her too-short skirt filled out just right.

I’d written at least twenty poems about her, published most of them. She had no idea.

The poem I’d been working on had turned to vapor in my absence. I tried summoning the next line, that beautiful next line, but it was gone.

Fuck. I sucked my Yuengling and brooded.

I’d expected working in a titty bar would be fun and Christ, had I been wrong. When it was dead, time moved so slowly not even writing could curb the ennui. Busy nights, you got to watch other people enjoy themselves, scrambled to restock the bar or prevent the clientele from damaging the merchandise (whether she’s flesh or steel, some men just loved seeing a woman broken by their hand). And the VIP room? Jesus.

The job made sure I had booze and books, gave me a tiny room above the Korean market, and was about all I had left in me to do. God help me, some nights I wished I was back in the post office.

The egg timer at Joe’s elbow chimed.

“Hank, go tell Sapphire her fifteen’s up.”

The VIP room—little more than a glorified closet—occupied a dark corridor in back of the club. Thumping bass from the DigiJuke drowned out most incidental noise, as intended.

I rapped my knuckles on the door. “Time’s up, Sapphire. Let’s go.”

I gave it half a minute. Some guys aren’t finished when the timer goes off. Usually I cracked the door—not enough to embarrass anyone, but to deliver the message fifteen minutes meant fifteen minutes.

The doorknob didn’t move.

“Who the fuck told you it was okay to lock this door?”

I pounded hard, like a cop.

“Sonofabitch, if I gotta break down this door—”

The knob clicked, turned. The door creaked open a hair. Pissed off, I kicked it the rest of the way.

Some scrawny college-looking prick yanked his pants over a pair of bony hips, still wearing the rubber he’d just shot into. Behind him, on the cracked vinyl loveseat, Sapphire sat in re-dress mode.

“Goddamn, Grandpa, I just wanted some privacy.”

“Think that sign doesn’t apply to you? Next time I’ll bend you over the bar, stick a beer bottle up your ass. We’ll talk privacy then.”

He scurried off. At least the prick used a rubber. Lots of guys don’t, even though it’s club policy.

I gave the loveseat a once-over, raised the cushions with my foot and scanned for wadded tissues, condom wrappers, anything left behind in the throes of passion. Once I knew no one would plop into a stranger’s love juice I sprayed some deodorizer (the air reeked of fucksweat) and corralled Sapphire into the dressing room.

There I rinsed out Sapphire’s mouth, cunt, and asshole, again grateful that the college twerp had bagged it. Then I swabbed her down with a disinfectant cloth, careful to get into her navel, behind her ears, her cleavage. Places where men liked to drool.

This part I didn’t mind so much. Sapphire was built fair-skinned and willowy, even had a small patch of cinnamon-colored pubic hair I thought was real sexy.

I sent her into the club. Ruby passed us on her way to the VIP room. With her stood a pudgy fella that I’d seen sitting alone by the stage.

“Half an hour,” Ruby said.

I sat at the bar and waited for something to happen. The night was winding down—a couple of mooks would want a turn in back, asking twenty minutes before closing time, the bastards. I’d never left this shithole on time.

One of these days my luck had to change. The writing would finally bring in some real money, at least enough I could afford to quit.

The music thumped on.

When the egg timer dinged I headed to the VIP room. Knocked.

“Come on, does every sonofabitch need an engraved invitation to move their ass—”

I threw open the door.

“Aw shit. Shit. Joe! HEY, JOE!”

Pudgy Fella sprawled on the loveseat, vacant eyes stuck toward the ceiling. His mouth locked in the O he’d tried screaming through over the DigiJuke. Blood spilled over the cushions, pooling on the floor.

Ruby crouched in the blood, head bobbing over his groin in slow, pre-programmed rhythm. She’d gnawed the cock that had been in her mouth to gristle.

“Jesus-fuck, Hank, what happened?”

Joe stood behind me, flanked by Motherfuckers #1 and #2. He looked pale.

“Hank, watch the door. Anyone shows up, tell them we closed early.”

“Right.”

“He come in with somebody?”

“No. And he’s wearing a wedding band. Probably didn’t tell anyone he was coming.”

“Good, that’s real good. We’ll take care of it from here, Hank.”

I didn’t argue. I took Joe’s spot at the bar, watched the door like I was told. Prayed this wouldn’t be the night Heath showed up to count the till.

Nikki asked if I’d seen a ghost.

“Wish I had. Gimme a belt of Wild Turkey, will you? Extenuating circumstances.”

Joe came back not too long after. The color returned to his cheeks. The Motherfuckers were nowhere to be seen.

“We got it under control, Hank. My boys are taking care of the mess.”

“All right.”

“You’re a team player, ain’t you, Hank? You’re not gonna fuck us on this?”

Joe smiled, but I knew a threat when I heard one. I was about to learn just how much he minded having me around.

“I think it’s time we talked promotion, Hank. Got you invested in the business.”

“Christ, no! I can’t stand it here as it is!”
“That’s because you’re not part of the team. You’d have our back, we have yours.”

He grinned again, his eyes spelling it out. The Motherfuckers could handle two stiffs as easily as one.

“Okay, so let’s talk benefits.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

I told him.

“Absolutely not. Heath would hang my balls on his mantle.”

“I’ll bring her back, of course. C’mon, Joe, I thought you trusted me.”

Joe lit a cigarette. “Fine. But you know which one you’re getting, right?”

***

After we closed, Joe escorted me and Nikki to the parking lot. The girls had been hung in the dressing room on their charging hooks, except for Ruby. I’d cleaned her up and put her in street clothes, walked her to my car.

“Have fun,” Nikki said. “Don’t fall in love.”

“I won’t.”

Joe said, “See you tomorrow, Hank.”

Maybe he hoped Ruby would malfunction again, make me a problem he wouldn’t have to worry about. Maybe I hoped the same thing.

I laid Ruby in the backseat and pulled out. Above us the night sky yawned wide, infinite, gleaming with a million stars.

Glocksucker

I haven’t had an orgasm since puberty, an ejaculation that nearly killed me. I’ve been careful ever since, and going to the bar with Erica isn’t smart. But when she discovers my little secret and asks me out for a drink, the tattoos of featureless red birds spiraling up her arms and out into the uncaged atmosphere, I can’t decline.

Erica has tanglewood eyes and more ear piercings than I can count without sweeping her chestnut hair out of the way. Her lowcut shirt shows skin beneath her belly button and clings tight to her breasts, which are harnessed in a bra that jostles them about every time she moves. Blue jeans grip her ass like greedy hands.

The bar she chooses, a shithole named Shotgunners, is humid and spongy, with empty shot glasses scattered everywhere like spent shells on a battlefield. The crowd around the bar looms a dozen people thick, so a hundred-dollar bill ensures the bombshell waitress keeps our glasses full while we stake claim to the only vacant table (wet and sticky from spilt drinks).

We drink while bobbing-and-weaving through small talk. She licks her lips and watches my mouth move when I say things. Laughs at all my jokes, places her hand on my forearm when doing so.

“You really named your dick ‘the Alamo’?” She asks, lighting a fresh cigarette before putting the old one out, its bittermint menthol smell swallowing both of us. She takes her smoke like a deep kiss.

“Yep, because you’ll always remember it, hehe.” Even I can’t believe the dangerous, drunken pick up lines I’m weaving.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she mocks.

We drink more. She says her roommate is named Kiko Magellan, which is bullshit—no one is named Kiko Magellan.

At some point an urban beat bounces through the speakers,decelerating life’s natural vibrations. Everyone moves in slow motion, the skin on their faces slinking towards the ground like molten cheese. I hold my breath and count the stars inside my eyelids until the world resumes its average pace.

“Oh—Ilovethis song. Wanna dance?” Erica asks, flushing the rest of her bloody mary down her throat. Without waiting for an answer, she floats out of her chair and moves towards a herd of dancers. I follow her onto a hardwood dancefloor that’s scarred from high heel warfare.

She reaches back and interlocks her fingers behind my neck, shoulder blades against my chest. She strokes my earlobe, bites her lip, touches her face. My fingers slip across her stomach, smooth like top shelf scotch.

She arches her back, pressing her ass into my crotch.

Rolling thrusts against my dick.

Grinding. Twisting.

Her skin reminds me of honey. Her hair is all beachy waves and caramel highlights and giddy pheromones. I breathe it in.

My blood-enflamed penis makes its presence known. I think of naked George Washington with a mouthful of miniature politicians squirming between his teeth; wigless and hogtied to a stick, spit-roasting inside a microwave oven. Orgasmic fluids slow and coagulate, bulging and backlogging at the tip of my dick—a fire hose at the pinch point in an old timey cartoon.

“I’m not sure about this,” I warn, but Erica either can’t hear me or doesn’t care. She rubs her hand against my erection inside my khakis. She bites her lower lip and looks achingly into my eyes. I kiss her, and she bites mylower lip when I try to pull away.

Her apartment is within drunken stumbling distance of the bar.

Sloppy, feral sex. She squeals as I thrust in and out, taking handfuls of her ass and spreading the cheeks apart to get just a little deeper. She arches her back to get herself as far up and out there as possible. Balls slap against her clit as she drips with syrupy satisfaction. I cram my unwashed thumb into her butthole, its acceptance tight and suctioning.

She gasps something about it being “so, so dirty”.

Everything smells like cadmium and other heavy metals.

She slips a vibrator up her ass, alongside my thumb as I plunge away at her from behind. I watch in the mirror as her dangling breasts sway and jolt in every direction—tidal waves that grow from butt-cheek-ripples created by my jackhammering pelvis.

I jerk her head back by a fistful of her hair. Spank her ass until it welts. Squeeze her tit as hard as I can. Choke her from behind. Call her a slut. She screams for me to fuck her. Harder.

The pressure. Builds. Then erupts. In blood, and cum.

And bullets.

9mm slugs spray everywhere like killer rain, ripping open the end of my penis in a pleasureful, painful, pitiful sensation. Tearing through her uterus, lungs, throat, and detonating out the top of her head, leaving a mushy stump where her scalp used to be. Hot shell casings burn flesh as they splay out of me and ricochet off the wall, the mattress, Kiko Magellan’s exposed erection in the corner chair. Bullets, smoke, the smell of gunpowder.

Relief, sweet euphoric relief.

Her body crumples to the bed, tanglewood eyes still open.

Blood and dead bird tattoos and cum and bullet-holes and shell casings everywhere.

***

“There’s no way you’re a virgin…virgins don’t fuck that good,” Erica says, lying jumbled in her sheets without any fucking left in her, sharing a minty cigarette with Kiko. Her words suck me back into the current dimension, the one without blood and black powder residue.

My slut slayer did its job, like always. It’s time to go writhe in guilt and grief and regret until the urge to hunt again becomes unbearable. I get dressed and leave without saying a word.

The Wasteland Motel

Bo was unhappy. He should have been grateful to be a member of one of the last few clusters of humanity that’d survived the apocalypse, but whoop-de-doo, he wasn’t.

He decided one Wednesday morning that he wanted more from life. He didn’t like tending the goats: brushing them, feeding them slop, shovelling their shit. 32 years of that was enough. He put in his two week notice with Todd, the goat boss, deciding to try his luck in the wasteland beyond the rusted steel walls of the camp instead.

Not surprisingly, when he said to Todd, “I’m putting in my two weeks notice,” Todd replied, baffled, “You’re what?”

“I read about it in an old book Crazy Charlie gave me, when I was a kid…”

Charlie had been a lunatic, a total drain on the camp, but somehow he’d managed to teach Bo how to read before he died. So that was nice.

Bo said it again, “Two weeks notice.”

No one had ever quit a job post apocalyptically.

This troubled many of the people in the camp. Especially Mort and Linda, who talked rather harshly about Bo to whoever would listen. “He better not think he can waltz over here and get a job with us and our chickens…”

“If he can’t handle goats, he certainly can’t handle chickens.”

“Or the eggs.”

“Or the pecking…”

They all agreed, no one was hiring Bo. But Bo didn’t come around to ask anyone for a job. No, for his last two weeks in camp, he just went about his business, conserving his water and rations, and sharpening a spoon into a small dagger as defense against the unknown dangers beyond the camp’s towering walls.

After his last shift with the goats, he said goodbye to everyone. They’d all gathered around in a loose circle, regarding him nervously. Directly behind Bo was the ramshackle gate marking the forbidden perimeter. Nothing came in. Nothing went out.

“Where you going?” Clara asked.

“Into the Wasteland,” Bo said offhandedly.

The crowd gasped in unison.

Clara opened her mouth to say something but her mother kicked her shin, prompting her to remain silent.

“Dave, open ‘er up,” said the mayor in resignation, motioning to the lone guard on duty. “Let the kid go…”

As unfathomable as it now seemed, really they’d all seen this coming. Bo had always been a strange dreamer, and his dreams tended to prompt two very distinct reactions from others in the camp. Most of them were afraid of people who dreamt, inviting disaster as it often did. The rest of them didn’t fear him at all; he just made them feel guilty about not following their own dreams themselves.

“The Nukies are still out there. S’all I’ll say, boy,” a shrivelled-up old woman said to him. She was blind and could barely walk.

“Nukies, jeez,” the mayor remarked. “It’s been a long time since anyone mentioned them…”

“Maybe there’s werewolves out there too,” Bo said, hoping to lighten the mood.

Nobody said anything in response. It was awkward.

But it’d been so many years, people didn’t know what to believe about the outside world anymore. The camp offered safety, but safety from what? No one really knew, but Bo intended to find out.

Bo shook everyone’s hand as the door was pried open for the first time in a generation. Before walking out into the blowing sands, he turned and said to his campmates, “I hope to see you all again soon.”

“Don’t forget the secret knock,” the mayor reminded him.

“Shave and a haircut, two bits,” Bo replied.

And with that, he walked out into the wasteland.

His destination was supposedly just a short walk across the dunes, maybe half a mile or so, just long enough for him to contemplate what Charlie had told him all those years ago along the way.

“Reason you suck at shovelling goat shit’s cos your family used to own a motel right up the road…”

“A what..?”

“A motel,” the old man repeated, “fer vay-cay-shun-ing. Quite the famous place, if I remember correctly. Why, folks used to come from miles arou…”

Charlie had abruptly stopped talking then. Before Bo could even ask him what either a motel or a vay-cay-shun was, the old man freaking died, right there in front of him.

To make matters worse, it turned out no one else in the camp was any help explaining the terms to him either. “All Greek to me,” Mort had joked.

Bo decided to drop the subject after Charlie was buried in the ground, but for many years after, his curiosity remained.

Cresting the final dune between him and his birthright, Bo gazed down upon the trail of crumbled asphalt lying just on its other side. Following the highway north, it wasn’t long before he caught sight of a severely dilapidated building in the distance. A large, faded sign remained standing out front, its bright red letters having long ago faded to the lightest of pinks.

It read simply, “MOTEL”, just like Charlie said it would.

Bo crouched behind a rock and waited, staking out the hills for any sign of life. He hadn’t seen much since leaving for the motel, but he wasn’t about to get ambushed in all his excitement to get there.

Once he felt certain the coast was clear, Bo came out from his hiding place, took a deep breath, and bravely marched forward.

He stayed there all alone that night, a little lonely and just a tad bit frightened. He occupied himself by straightening up the place, which looked like it had survived a nuclear war. Digging around in old piles of papers, sorting thorough various debris, it wasn’t long before he discovered some brochures that gave him a pretty good idea of what a motel was supposed to be.

He was stunned, gazing at the old photos of a time before he was born, when people actually traveled freely, occasionally coming in from the road to rest, relax, put their feet up and enjoy a nice, ice-cold beverage.

Wow, imagine that? An ice-cold beverage…

A week later, when Bo returned to the camp and announced his new motel, they all just laughed at him. He explained to them in detail what a vacation was. They all just laughed even harder.

“A wasteland vacation!” cried Linda, Mort’s wife, clutching at her belly as she doubled over with laughter.

“No wonder you didn’t want to shovel my goat’s shit,” Todd the goat boss said, “you’re a comedian, not a goat tender!”

Bo had been hoping for a warmer reception, but he resolved to win his former campmates over eventually. He traded some goods discovered in the rubble for some much-needed supplies, returning over the dunes to his new home that night.

Sometime the next morning, his first guest arrived. Turned out Clara didn’t like living in the camp anymore either. She traded some sex action to Bo in exchange for room and board at his motel.

He set her up in a room around back. “Sorry about the giant concrete hole in the ground,” he said. “When my funds get fluffier, I’ll have it filled in. For now, just be careful around the edge.”

Clara looked down into the concrete hole and frowned.

With Clara having taken up residence there, a few men from the camp came to visit the Wasteland Motel as well. Turned out the other prudes back at camp just couldn’t turn as good of a trick as she could.

Business wasn’t great for Bo, but it was good enough for now. He filled the vending machine with long-expired orange sodas he found in an old storage room.

“I can add the continental breakfast soon, if business keeps improving,” he said.

One day, Bo found a set of keys. He had no idea what they were meant to unlock. He showed them to Clara. She had no idea, either. Bo regarded the keys curiously for a while before hanging them up on the wall behind the front desk.

A few days later, the camp mayor paid a surprise visit to the Wasteland Motel. He came on his ancient, sputtering dune buggy in a swirling haze of sand and noise.

Bo took the mayor all around the grounds, showing off the motel and all its amenities with pride. The mayor just laughed at first.

“Place is a dump!” he said.

That was before Clara invited him into a room. When he came out, he wasn’t laughing anymore.

“I’m still not sure of this place,” he said, buttoning his pants as he prepared to leave in his dune buggy.

The next day, he came back with Linda. He rented a room, fucked her in it. Then Linda came and sat around in Bo’s office afterwards. They shared a can of beef stew while the mayor went into the room with Clara once again.

That day Bo finally discovered what the keys were for.

There was a hatch around back, next to the big concrete hole in the ground. Bo unlocked the hatch and went down into the darkness. He was scared for his life but just had to find out what was down there.

What he found was stacks and stacks of white plastic bags. Inside the bags were chlorine pellets. He didn’t know what chlorine was or what it was used for, but he figured it out rather quickly from the writing on the bags.

The concrete hole in the ground was supposed to be a swimming pool. How nice…

There was something else down there, too. Something like 4,000 pounds of red string. In crates. This too puzzled him, for some time afterwards, until the day he found the plaque beneath a large pile of rubble out front.

“THE WORLD’S BIGGEST BALL OF STRING”, it read.

What a turn of events. No one was laughing at Bo anymore.

Eventually, the motel became a very popular place for all the people from the camp. They came there to get away as time and work allowed, and they always brought goods to trade in return for their stay.

On the one-year anniversary of its reopening, Bo decided to throw a big party at the motel and he invited the whole entire camp, free of charge. They all came over the dunes and celebrated together. It was a very happy day indeed.

How foolish they felt as they all milled about, joking, laughing, and drinking by the pool that night. It felt good to swim in the cool, clear water, far away from camp.

They spoke about the odd curiosity of “The World’s Biggest Ball of String” and what it must have meant to travellers from times past, back when the road outside still went somewhere. But that was the other thing.

“The road could go somewhere, couldn’t it?” Mort said.

“I suppose…” The mayor was forced to admit, floating on his back in the pool.

The people began to smile, considering the possibility. The thought of the world opening back up to them, when it had seemed so lost and destroyed and closed off for such a long time before.

Bo looked up at the stars and lost himself in reverie. He felt great pride for having left the camp, re-staking their claim on the outside world, when everyone else had been so fearful and close minded. For the first time in his or anyone else’s recollection, they felt hopeful, unworried as tribe.

Certainly no one was worried about the silent, shadowy forms closing in on them.

Deformed. Scab-faced. Hairless humanoid mutations. Armed with cinderblock clubs, repurposed car parts, and sharpened, ax-like stop signs, let’s just say they were far less concerned with “The World’s Biggest Ball of String” than they were with the pool of floating meat there before them.

Reclining peacefully in her pool chair, the old blind woman whispered, “told you so…”

Hump Day

Suckin’ my unlit Winston, I swerved the Buick longside the curb, on the corner of Grape and Vine. And fought to squelch a yawn. Twelve-hour-grinds three days straight dancin’ the graveyard shift, and my weary old ass shoulda been crashed, in my otherwise empty studio.

But Slim Grady owed me money. Accordin’ to his ex, Slim had slunk off like a skunk five nights earlier—to shack up with some ho out here in the Red Light zone.

I almost stepped in dog shit climbin’ out the Buick. While the dank, rank air that greeted me smelled like Godzilla’s ass. Graffiti choked the chipped brick buildings—all the doors and first-floor windows barred with metal gates. Shards of broken glass—in every color of a Skittles rainbow crunched beneath my boots: the gutter strewn with cans … needles, bottles, bloated condoms—and chunks of rotting puke. Not a single red light anywhere. Looked like a cockroach zone to me.

If his ex was right, and she wasn’t slingin’ bull to protect her man, Slim lived half-way down this block on my side of the walk. This time in the mornin’, most of the human roaches had holed themselves away, and wouldn’t scurry out till nightfall. But closing in on Grady’s squat, I spied a piece of tail, leanin’ against a shit-box Civic, idlin’ at the curb. New to the streets for sure; she still had all her curves. Since drugs had yet to waste her … smooth coffee skin still gleamed as sweet as melted caramel. And jeans not yoga pants: bonus points for me. By the time I reached them, the Civic sputtered off.

“Can you bloody believe that?”

“Believe bloody what exactly?”

“Guy wanted me to blow him for a measly twenty bucks. What is he fucking nuts? I gotta get me thirty for the likes a that.”

“Well, today’s already Wednesday, doll. Dude’s probably low on cash. Most folks don’t get paid till Friday rolls around again.”

“Hell, you’re probably right. But if he wanted me to blow him, he shoulda thought a that before blowin’ all his cash.”

She amped her smile a thousand watts: “How ‘bout you, baby? You got any money?”

Greed filled her drug-starved eyes when I reached inside my pocket—

Her mood sinkin’ like the Titanic when I flashed a badge instead. “I get paid on Fridays, too, doll.”

Gotta give her credit. She rebounded like Dennis Rodman in his NBA prime—ampin’ that smile brighter than all the marquee lights in my little corner of China Town. “Why didn’t you say so, baby. Five-O’s always free.”

I cupped her elbow in my palm, steered her toward the Buick. Kept her pressed against my side: in case she thought of boltin’. My boots and her silver stilettos grindin’ those Skittle rainbows.

“Best news I’ve heard all week, doll. Let’s get this Hump Day party started. We can launch with fucky-sucky.”

I bought that badge in a fucking dollar store. Best money I’ve ever spent.

Bring Me the Head of F.W. Murnau

Anton Shreck peered through the sliding glass door that led to the patio and the outdoor heated pool, checking on the girls.

They were well-secured and squirming, and their sounds of muffled protest pleased him. He supposed on reflection that their frogties and pimp goggles were a bit over the top, but the visual gave him a hard-on and focused his powers.

Soon the juices would trickle together into the steaming blue soup, the girls tumbling into the mix in a fleshy fireworks display of sizzle, crackle and pop. And then…

He smiled, and the universe seemed to smile with him. Then it frowned, studied the situation, did some quick calculations and smiled again. Alternatively, the black acid had begun to kick in, because the moon was dripping gore that slid down the white tile matrix surrounding the pool, crawled up naked thighs and planted its crimson fingers inside the girls, one by one.

A scent of iodine and sulphuric acid bloomed in the night air. The stars were in alignment, the lines of transgression had been cross-hatched into the mother of all sigils, and the patient work of long hours in the basement lab was finally yielding fruit.

Shreck closed the door and entered the den. Much was left to be done before the ceremony proper could commence.

Specifically, he now had to face what was left of the head of German Expressionist filmmaker F.W. Murnau. After its removal from the family plot in Stahnsdorf, the head’s bumpy ride to a mansion in the Hollywood Hills had been the stuff of splatter-driven screwball comedy. Sometime actress and full-time clown whore Missy Crampton had smuggled the head between her thighs, passing off the odd crotch-bulge to TSA agents as a cancerous growth. “I don’t really like to talk about it,” she said later in a press conference.

While obviously Crampton’s flatter-than-flat belly had suffered no metastatic drama, the withering glare she gave the TSA agents focused media attention on the treatment they’d accorded the waif-like starlet, famed for her roles in such films as Ivanna Fock andHeadbanger Grrrrlz. The agents were handcuffed and taken to the same cramped room in the LAX terminal where they themselves had interrogated countless passengers. They were then brutally worked over by drag queen whores and turned over to a succession of stressed-out dock workers from Long Beach.

The actress played a central role in the ceremony, the most important role of her career. Because of her close proximity to the head while in transit, Crampton’s legendary thighs had “soaked up death jizz,” according to Shreck’s narcissistic cabal, led by a floating doppelganger of occult filmmaker Kenneth Anger.

It was this very same “death jizz” that Shreck hoped would reanimate Murnau’s head once it had been grafted onto the Philip K. Dick robot.

There was a long story there as well, but Shreck had no time for such folderol. He raised his left hand—nightmare shrapnel—and a winch squealed on the roof, plunging Murnau’s head through the lurid colors of the skylight in a hybridized homage to Frankenstein and Suspiria. A black leather bondage harness held the moldering head in place as it descended, raining its desiccated skin flakes to the floor, gleaming white bathroom tile that sloped upwards to create a ramp down which slid esoteric skater-bois who had wandered in at the last possible second.

“Attention, ahem.” Shreck cleared his throat and spat a fat wad of phlegm oton his hermaphroditic henchthing, Wendy. “On my instructions, the pool girls will be rendered and the Murnau-Dickbot graft shall commence.”

“But what if there are complications?” mewled Wendy, in a voice that closely resembled Peter Lorre’s. “Remember the last time we…”

“Silence, bitch!”

“I love your dominance,” simpered Wendy, crawling off to its corner to watch and masturbate itself into a puddle of ambiguous fluids.

Shreck blew Wendy a kiss.

The body of the Philip K. Dick robot was lashed to an antique electric chair.

“And a one and a two…”

Murnau’s head continued its journey from the skylight until it sat squarely on the shoulders of Robo-Dick.

Outside, Missy Crampton was the first to hit the water, a boiling broth that instantly sent thousands of watts through her nubile ass. Her flesh bubbled and blackened.

“I’ll get you, Mister Shreck,” she screamed, “And your troglodyte bearcub, too!”

A surge of electricity spiked, and the mansion was plunged in darkness, intermittently rippled with strobes of oversaturated red and blue light that played over the final fusion of German Expressionism with proto-Cyberpunk.

But something had gone horribly, terribly wrong.

No sooner had the knit taken, cubic inches of synthetic nerve bundling joined with dead organic matter than the head began to swivel, accelerating speed until it tore from Robo-Dick’s body and flew through the air. Skeletal jaws hurled the curse Crampton had secreted within Murnau’s head—her terrible revenge against Shreck’s duplicity.

A bolt of blue flame blasted forth from Murnau’s mouth, cocooning Shreck’s body in fire. He thrashed about and clawed at his melting features, calling out for help that never came. Reduced to a junk heap of bone and metal, Shreck crumpled to the ground and lay there, wafts of white ash slowly rising from his mangled form.

Shreck’s cabal, composed mainly of bored necrophiles, dabblers in the occult arts, and dropouts from UCLA film school, regarded the scene with detachment and began their exodus from the mansion.

“Shit is weak,” said one of the dropouts. “I liked it better when it was Andy Warhol’s head and Burroughs’ body.”

“That was pretty cool,” said a skater-boi.

Desultory bro-bumps were exchanged.

“Hey, what was that noise?”

“What happened?”

They looked back, startled, as a procession of waterlogged actresses, charred beyond recognition, came pouring out of the pool. Their eyes blank discs, their intention homicidal.

“Time for some hipsters to die the death!” roared Crampton. “Let’s get ‘em, girls!”